Inevitable
by ScottyBaby
Summary: After a rainy winter night, Mark and Roger begin to accept the inevitable. Slash.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Wow, I'm just fandom jumping like crazy. Well, this is my first Rent fic. I've only seent the movie, but don't worry folks, I'm going to see the play at the first possible chance. Constructive crit is most welcome. Thanks!

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It all started on a rainy night in late December, although Mark could never remember the exact date or time because, for once, his camera was absent from his grasp. It was one of those nights where the air and the wind seemed bone chillingly cold, and yet, not cold enough for snow to fall. Not even cold enough for sleet or hail. It was the miserable cold of pelting rain and gusting wind and near-yet-not-quite-frigid temperatures. In Mark's opinion, it was the worst kind of cold.

Mark didn't mind New York winters all that much, despite what his friends may have thought. He had always had a childlike fascination with snow. It seemed that when a fresh coat of snow covered the landscape, the dirty, disease and only god knows what else ridden streets didn't seem so miserable anymore. Snow had a way of making even the most rotten things seem naively pure. A ridiculous thought, he knew, but besides, it didn't seem so cold outside with a scarf and a general appreciation for the winter landscape.

However, as much as Mark enjoyed the snow, he had an equally powerful hatred for the winter rain. It seemed to amply everything miserable and depressing about their life in the loft, in New York……life in general, actually. That particular night, Mark was even more disgusted with the chilling rain than usual. First of all, he never had anything to film when it rained, because people generally didn't enjoy walking the streets of alphabet city when it was rainy and cold. People didn't enjoy walking the streets in general, but a cold rain usually drove away even Mark's regulars, who he liked to film when he was bored or Roger was gone.

Which brought Mark to his second point. Roger was gone. He had left about three hours ago to take a walk, something that Roger had been doing more that usual lately. Mark didn't mind all that much; since Mimi's death, Roger had been a bit too subdued, a bit too moody, a bit too hermit-like. A bit too much like his "former days", as Mark liked to put it. He didn't like to think of them as Roger's April days, his suicidal days, his drug days, his withdrawal days…..it was too morbid for Mark, too close to bad memories.

When Roger returned from his walks, though, Mark noticed that he usually seemed refreshed, happier, more likely to engage in a long conversation or partake in some friendly banter, something that was sorely missed by the filmmaker. So when Roger would announce that he was going to take a short walk, Mark never really cared, as long as Roger bundled up, took his AZT, and promised to eat something substantial when he came home.

Mark glanced at the clock, his hands twitching nervously without something to fiddle with. It had been three hours and five minutes now. Roger had never, _ever, _taken this long of a walk. Mark was a creature of habit, and when things didn't go exactly as they always had, he got agitated. And why shouldn't he? When you were a starving filmmaker, living in the middle of New York, and your best friend was living with (and dying from, Mark couldn't stop himself from thinking) AIDS, things weren't always predictable. He couldn't help it if he enjoyed the things that were.

Supposing he should occupy himself, Mark stood from his perch on the windowsill and stretched. What should he do now? He could read……too restless……he could sleep……again, too restless……he could eat……not hungry……he could make tea. Yes. He could make tea. Some for himself, some for Roger, who would most certainly be home soon.

Halfway through Mark's attempt at making tea, however, he caught the faint noise of footsteps on the stairs outside the door. Bounding footsteps, from the sound of it, Mark thought with a smirk. If Roger was feelings well enough to bound up the stairs, he would probably be feeling well enough to stay up and talk with Mark. Mark felt the silly rise of anticipation as he gazed towards the door. Roger and he hardly ever talked anymore, and he was looking forward to getting a glimpse back into the world of his best friend.

When the door finally opened, Mark's was ready with a snide remark about why Roger had been gone so long, involving the rain, a horny musician, and a prostitute with a warm apartment. As Roger appeared fully in front of him, though, all words, and oxygen for that matter, were caught in Mark's throat.

Roger was soaking wet, hair dripping, coat sopping, jeans drenched and stuck to his too-skinny legs. Not only was he wet, though, but he was shivering. Shivering and shaking and trembling and……was he crying? His face was red, but Mark could tell that it wasn't only from the cold. When Roger was cold, the tips of his nose and the tops of his cheeks turned a bright, delightfully rosy color (something that everyone could notice platonically about their best friends, Mark was sure). But when Roger cried, his eyes turned red, as did the rest of his cheeks, giving him an absolutely miserable appearance. And right now, Roger looked utterly miserable.

"Roger?" Mark breathed, taking a step forward as the songwriter shut the door and leaned back against it, folding his arms across his chest. "Hey, are you okay?"

Roger didn't answer, didn't move, didn't acknowledge the fact that Mark had even spoken, didn't change at all, except for the lone tear that tracked down his cheek. Mark was used to Roger crying by now; after Mimi's death, Roger was prone to almost violent moods swings. One moment, he could be practically high on life, laughing and smiling and almost _enjoying_ life, which was almost impossible in this day and age. And on other days, Roger could break down and cry for almost no reason. Mark blamed it on the weather, on Mimi, on the disease, even on himself. Perhaps this was just a bad day. Perhaps Roger just needed a bit of comfort.

"Hey, what's wrong, Roger?" he asked, closing the distance between him and Roger and resting a hand on his best friend's trembling shoulder. Roger flinched.

"I…." Roger started, shaking his head and wiping his eyes. "Nothing. It's nothing, I'm fine."

Mark looked at him quizzically. Something was definitely wrong. "Are you hurt? Did someone hurt you, Roger?"

Roger shook his head and remained silent. Mark pressed on.

"Did something happen? Is everyone okay?"

Roger shook his head again, and Mark felt a twinge of fear. Was it Collins? Was Collins sick? Was Maureen hurt? Was something wrong with Joanne?

"It's nothing. I just…… I just don't feel very good, that's all.

Coming from any other person in the world, Mark wouldn't have thought twice about those words. Coming from Roger, however, those simple words were downright scary. Roger had been looking especially drained lately, tired, worn out from performing simple tasks. Mark had denied to himself that it had anything to do with the virus. He imagined that Roger had been thinking the same thing. But the fact of the matter was, it was still there. Roger was getting weaker, for no logical reason other than the inevitable.

But Mark didn't like to think about it. So he didn't.

"Okay, Roger," Mark said, taking Roger's arm and pushing him down into the couch. "Let's just get your wet clothes off, I already started making some tea, and……"

"No, no Mark, it's not okay," Roger said suddenly, pitifully, resting his head in his hands and taking a deep breath. "I was _stupid_, stupid and idiotic, because I saw the clouds coming, I saw the rain coming and I ignored it. I ignored it, Mark, cause I didn't want to think about how I couldn't get sick, how I couldn't risk it, how I couldn't do this and that and maybe, just maybe, it would snow and then I could come get you and we could play in the snow or do something stupid or childish or just_ something_ and……"

"Whoa, Roger, whoa," Mark said, sitting down and pulling Roger's hands away from his face, stopping his friend's mindless babbling. "Slow down. Start over. What happened?"

"I didn't want to come home yet," Roger said, a little more calmly than before, his eyes still pained. "I mean, I thought, why should I have to worry about storm clouds in the middle of December more than anyone else? Stupid, I know. But damn it, Mark, I just wanted to…….I don't know what I wanted."

Roger stopped for a minute, looking to Mark as if the filmmaker was going to yell at him. Mark just nodded, encouraging Roger to go on.

"I didn't mean to get caught in the rain, Mark, honestly. I didn't know how far from home I was. I got disoriented. I got fuckin' _lost_, in the middle of a city I know like the back of my hand. And then I got pissed. I got mad at myself for getting lost and for getting depressed and for worrying about the rain and I just got this ridiculous idea that I could find my way home on my own. That I didn't need anyone's help for anything and that if I stopped or asked for help that I was weak, that I was giving in……And then I started feeling sick."

Roger took another deep breath, and rested his head back in his hands. His next words were whispered.

"I'm not ready yet, Mark. I'm not fuckin' _ready_."

"Hey now," Mark said, placing a steady hand on Roger's back. "You were just saying that you were fine. That's probably true, okay? Everyone has off days. You might just have a cold……"

"Yeah, and for anyone else that would be just peachy," Roger laughed bitterly. "But for me?"

Mark shook his head. "Let's not worry about it, okay? You're just blowing this out of proportion. It's nothing. It's nothing, okay?"

"Okay," Roger said, nodding. He laughed, a little less bitterly this time. "Yeah. I'm just being stupid."

Mark laughed too, but it sounded forced, strangled. "Nah, it's just your disillusioned brain working overtime."

Roger smiled. It, too, was forced. "Yeah. Right. It's just the weather. Puts me in kind of a weird mood. Sorry."

"It's okay," Mark said. "It happens."

And then there was silence. Painful, deafening silence that Mark thought might make his ears explode. Along with his heart, which was working overtime now in an attempt to calm himself down, which didn't even make sense to him. He had to be calm, for Roger. Because Roger was far from calm right now, with good reason. Not that he had to know that.

The piercing blare of the tea kettle finally broke the silence, and Roger jumped at the startling sound. Mark smiled, patted Roger's shoulder, and made his way into the kitchen.

"I'll get us some tea," he said, glancing back at Roger. He ignored the flutter in his chest when Roger looked up at him, attempting to smile, coughing instead. "Go change."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Chapter 2! I think this might only be about 3 chapters long, we'll see. Thanks to those who read and reviewed!

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Mark was not a morning person, by any means, so when he lifted his head off the pillow and squinted at the clock, he was utterly surprised to find that it read 5:36. He rubbed his face, frustrated and wondering why he was awake so early, and burrowed back into his thin blanket. He was almost back asleep when he heard it. A cough. It sounded muffled, like someone was trying to conceal it, but soon enough, one cough turned into two and two turned into too many. Mark sighed, swinging his legs to the side of the bed and rubbing his face again, attempting to fully wake up.

Roger coughing at 5:30 in the morning was not a good thing. Roger coughing at _any _time was never something to pass off lightly, but coughing this early in the morning meant one of two things: that Roger had woken himself up coughing, or that Roger had spent the entire night awake and coughing. Not good.

Mark stood, grabbing the blanket off the bed and wrapping it around his shoulders as he noticed the frigid temperature in the loft. He shivered. Apparently the heat wasn't working again. Excellent timing.

He padded over to Roger's room, stopping and listening as Roger coughed again. He shivered again, a mixture of cold, tiredness, and worry.

"Roger?" he asked, knocking on the door in front of him. The coughing immediately stopped, and there was silence. He knocked again. "Roger, are you okay?"

"Yeah," came a muffled voice from inside the room. "Yeah, I'm fine. Go back to bed."

"Are you sure?" Mark asked, pressing his ear to the door. He heard rustling, and Roger's voice became a little clearer.

"Yeah, Mark, it's just a tickle. I'm fine. Promise."

"Okay," Mark said, not believing Roger for one second. "Do you need a glass of water?"

"No. I'm fine. Go to bed, its fine."

"Alright, Roger. Wake me if you need something."

Roger didn't reply. Mark sighed, stepping away from the door and starting back towards his room. He realized, though, that he was now wide awake. Looking longingly at the deserted bed, he made his way into the kitchen and started a pot of tea.

Settling down on the couch as he waited for the water to boil, Mark couldn't help but feel that familiar pang of worry creep into his stomach. The same pang of worry he got every time Roger was sick, every time Roger sneezed or coughed or just looked a little pale. He rested his head against the back of the couch, closing his eyes and smirking a bit. It was almost funny, the way he worried about Roger. Roger had no need for a mother or a father, Mark could do enough worrying for the both of them.

Mark practically took full responsibility for Roger's care. When people asked why Mark took on so much for Roger, he said that it was because Roger didn't have anyone else. That Roger needed someone to care for him, to watch out for him, to make sure that he didn't do something stupid. But the truth was, Mark needed to take care of Roger and much as Roger needed to be cared for.

Mark had stayed with Roger all through his withdrawal, when April and everyone else was gone and Roger had no one to cling to. So, acting solely on instinct, Roger had clung to Mark. And Mark had accepted him with open arms. Slowly, their relationship developed from roommates to friends, from friends to best friends, from best friends to practically brothers. But from brothers……what else was there?

Mark cringed as the tea kettle whistled, and jumped up to stop the noise that, on the off change that Roger was asleep, might have woken him up. He poured himself a cup and sank back into the couch, reclaiming his train of thought.

What were his feelings toward Roger now? Of course they were closer than most roommates, most friends. Staying with someone through the worst bouts of withdrawal had a way of forming a bond like no other. A bond of absolute trust and loyalty. That was normal enough for Mark.

But did a sudden appreciation of Roger's laugh (a singsong yet sexy chuckle that was infectious), Roger's smile (a burst of light and happiness with a simple upturning of lips), Roger's hair in the moonlight (almost like a halo, innocent, angelic, so ironic), Roger's ass (enough said there)……did that have anything to do with platonic brotherly love? With a bond such as theirs, could these feelings be avoided? Mark didn't think so.

"Mark?"

Mark jumped and looked over towards Roger, who was now sitting on the arm of the couch, resting his head sleepily against the cushion with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, as well.

"Thought you were asleep," Mark lied, and Roger shook his head.

"Sorry if I woke you up before," Roger said, yawning and smiling sheepishly. "How come you're still awake?"

Mark shrugged. "Not really tired anymore. I just got to thinking, you know how it is."

"Yeah," Roger said, looking towards the kitchen.

"Tea?" Mark asked, and Roger shook his head. They sat in silence for a minute, listening to the ticking of the clock, before Mark spoke again.

"You stopped coughing."

"Mmmhmm," Roger mumbled, eyes closing. "I told you I was okay."

"How do you feel?" Mark asked, scooting over and stretching his hand out to feel Roger's forehead. To his dismay, it felt warmer than usual. "You're warm."

"Hmm?" Roger mumbled again, leaning into Mark's touch, and Mark could tell he was falling back asleep. "No, I'm cold."

Mark's brows furrowed in concern. He stood and moved to where Roger was sitting, placing his blanket around his friend's shoulders. Roger's eyes fluttered open.

"'M okay," he mumbled, shrugging his shoulders weakly in protest. "You need that. It's cold."

"You need it more than I do. You're sick."

"Am not."

"That's not what you said last night."

Roger's eyes immediately turned downward, and he blushed. "I had a rough day."

Mark sat back down on the couch, closer to Roger. "Wanna talk about it?"

Roger shrugged again. "I was just thinking about Mimi, how she got sick on Christmas Eve and it just all went downhill from there. I thought about the people at life support, how they were there one day, gone the next. I thought about Angel."

He paused, meeting Mark's eyes again. "I thought about you."

Mark blinked. "Me?"

"Yeah, you," Roger said, smiling slightly at Mark's surprise. "How hard this must be on you. How you have to watch everyone around you slowly deteriorate until you're the last one standing."

"Poor baby," Mark whispered with a slight chuckle. Roger didn't laugh.

"I'm serious, Mark, I didn't realize it before. I know you're not ready to let me go yet." Roger looked down at his lap again. "_I'm_ not even ready to let me go yet."

Mark felt tears welling up in his eyes as he watched Roger try and get his own emotions under control. His hands were clenching and unclenching the blanket, his chin was trembling slightly, and his eyes were uncommonly bright.

"Anyway," Roger said, after a moment of silence, "that's what happened yesterday. I just got to thinking and……"

"I know how it is," Mark said, his voice slightly choked. Roger smiled.

"Yeah."

Mark nodded, resting his hand on Roger's knee gently. "Go to bed, Roger. I think you've done enough thinking for one day. I know I have."

Roger nodded and stood, taken off guard as a cough bubbled up from his chest. He tried to suppress it, which made him cough even more. Mark rested a hand on his back and rubbed it slightly until Roger was done. He moved around to the front of Roger, taking in his friend's tired and gaunt appearance, and took Roger's face into his hands.

"I'm not ready to lose you yet," Mark whispered, and Roger closed his eyes. "So go to bed, get better, alright?"

Roger nodded again, and Mark placed a gentle kiss on Roger's forehead. Roger looked at him with an odd expression on his face, before turning around and heading back to his room. Mark watched his door close, then sank back down into the couch, letting a tear fall.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Okay, so I said that this would be the last chapter...but it's probably not, considering the way I ended it might leave you guys wanting more. So, chapter 4 might come within the next week or two, depending on how exams go. Thank you so much to all those who reviewed, I love reading them. Enjoy chapter 3!

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The next night, Mark awoke at 4:53 to the sound of violent coughing. He ventured silently into Roger's room after twenty minutes of denying that he wasn't dreaming and that Roger was practically hacking up a lung in the next room. When he reached Roger's room, the musician in question was doubled over on his bed, a look of pain and pure fear etched into his features. Mark rushed to his side, soothing him with gentle touches to his back and whispered promises in his ear, promises that Mark knew he'd have to break eventually, but that would serve his purpose for now.

Two nights after that, Mark awoke at 3:24 to the sound of someone being violently sick in the bathroom. He hesitated for only a few minutes, not denying this time, just composing himself, before padding into the bathroom. Roger was hunched over, dry heaving into the toilet as his shoulders shuddered and his sweat coated hair fell limply into his face. When Roger noticed Mark standing in the doorway, he slumped against the sink, smiling weakly.

"Bad food."

"You haven't eaten"

"Sure. I had some cereal this morning."

"Food poisoning from Cap 'N Crunch, huh?"

Roger didn't get to respond, for another wave of nausea had taken him in its grip and left him panting over the bowl again. Mark sighed and knelt down, rubbing Roger's back as he heaved again. Two hours later, Roger was totally exhausted, leaning against Mark as his eyes drooped and his chest heaved. Mark couldn't decide whether to risk the trip to Roger's room or not. In the end, Mark laid flat out on the bathroom floor, offering his stomach as a pillow for a very sick guitarist.

Two days after that, Mark didn't sleep at all. Instead, he sat in Roger's bed and calmed his best friend when the fever dreams took over. The next night, Mark went straight to Roger's room, where the two roommates sat on Roger's bed, neither of them in the right mindset to sleep.

"You really should _try_, Roger," Mark said, twisting the blanket in his lap between his hands. He looked at Roger, how Roger's hands shook as he held his guitar, to the point where he couldn't really play much. How Roger's eyes looked sunken in against his ghastly pale skin. "What will it hurt?"

"Nothing," Roger said in his too-raspy voice, not looking up from his guitar, where he fingered soundless notes. "But I'm just gonna wake up two hours from now puking or coughing or shivering……what's the point?"

"But what will it hurt?"

Roger sighed, setting his guitar aside and folding his hands in his lap and staring down at them. "I'll dream again."

Mark's heart clenched. He tried to meet Roger's eyes, to no avail. "What do you dream about?"

Roger shrugged. "A lot of times I don't remember. Sometimes……sometimes I do."

Mark sat silently, waiting patiently for Roger to continue. As he waited, he noticed and odd looking mark on Roger's face. It looked red, irritated, scab-like, and out of place. Tears started to well in Mark's eyes and he averted his eyes, staring pointedly at the wall.

"Sometimes I dream about dying. About taking my last breaths and leaving everyone in the hospital behind. Seeing Mimi again, Mimi and Angel. And then sometimes, after I see them, I get sent straight to hell." At this, Roger smirked. "Lord knows I'd deserve it."

"Roger," Mark started, but Roger continued.

"If anyone's goin' to heaven, Mark, it's you."

"Says the atheist," Mark said with a forced smile, feeling the presence of even more threatening tears at those words. He looked up to find Roger staring right in his eyes, and the smile faded. "You don't mean that"

Roger smiled. "Sure I do. I mean, what have I ever done that's worthy of that?"

"What have I?"

"_Everything_," Roger said, not breaking his gaze. "You stayed with me through it all. Through everything. I pushed you away, cussed at you, shut you out……hell, Mark, I even left. And you still didn't give up on me."

Mark let a tear fall, not bothering to brush it away. Roger, frowning, looked away suddenly.

"I…..I don't think I ever thanked you for that. For anything. I just thought that I should tell you."

"You didn't have to," Mark said, resting his hand over Roger's. He found it to be startlingly cold, and picked up Roger's other hand, taking them both and rubbing them between his own. "You're too cold."

"You're practically a saint, Mark."

Mark laughed, another tear breaking free. "Yeah, and that would be a compliment if……"

"I love you."

Mark stopped rubbing Roger's hands, his breath catching in his throat and his body beginning to tremble. He didn't dare look at Roger's face, for fear that he wouldn't find what he was hoping to find, what he'd been hoping to find for so long, even though he denied it……or fear that he would find it, and then what would he do?

And then, suddenly, realization hit Mark like a semi in the chest. Roger, no matter how much they tried to deny it, was dying. True, Roger had been in a perpetual state of "dying" for a while, but now, it was close, so close, leaving hardly any time to say what hadn't been said, what needed to be said.

There was a moment's hesitation, and inner battle in Mark's head. One side spoke of a friendship that could be sorely tested in the very days when it mattered most. The other side spoke of something beyond friendship, of a lifetime of regret after he was gone because of things left unsaid.

Mark looked up then, and saw that Roger had tears in his eyes as well. He freed one of his hands from Roger's, bringing it up to a stubble covered cheek to caress lovingly. His thumb stroked the skin for a moment before stopping, the hand moving to Roger's chin, to lift that face, to meet those radiant eyes.

"I love you, too."

And then lips met in the softest of contact, brushing, hovering, unsure and scared. Mark heard Roger's heavy breathing, could feel them both shaking. His heart was beating faster than ever before. He backed away slightly, pressing a hand against Roger's chest to feel that his heart was working overtime as well. He smiled.

Then, Roger's lips were on his, not entirely forceful, yet still passionate, loving, trying to convey a hoard of emotions in one single action. Mark was caught up in the whirlwind of it all, his hand moving to the back of Roger's neck, stroking his hair and drinking it all in……

But then Roger stopped suddenly, pulling away and drawing in a huge breath. To Mark's horror, it was let out as a choked sob, followed by another as Roger looked away and crossed his arms over his chest as if he were cold. Mark was struck silent, wondering what had happened as Roger refused to meet his gaze, more tears tracking down his face. Mark rested a hand on his knee.

"Roger? What's wrong? Was that……was that wrong? Was that not what you wanted?"

Roger shook his head, letting out another sob and falling forward into Mark's chest, twisting his hands in the filmmaker's shirt.

"I'm sorry, Mark, I'm so sorry," he sobbed, burying his face in Mark's shoulder. Mark rubbed his back gently.

"Why? What's the matter? There's nothing to be sorry about."

"I'm selfish, I'm so selfish, so sorry……"

"Hey," Mark said, taking Roger's face in his hands and brushing tears away with his thumbs. "You're not selfish. Why would you think that?"

"Because," Roger's breath hitched in his throat as he fought to calm down. "Because I wanted this for so long, and now……and now I'm going to have to leave you and it's not fair to you, it's not fair, but I wanted this, and now you do, and now, now……"

"Shhhh," Mark whispered comfortingly. "Shhhh, it's alright. That doesn't make you selfish. I wanted it, too, Roger. I wouldn't have kissed you if I didn't want it."

"But now? Do you want it now, now that I'm……"

"Shhh. Of course. Nothing's changed."

"We only have……"

"It doesn't matter."

"But you'll……"

"I love you."

Roger shook his head, wiping at his eyes.

"It's not fair."

"I know. But when have we ever played fair, huh?"

At this, Roger smiled, the last of his sobs fading out as he leaned in to kiss Mark again. Mark could tell through the kiss that Roger was emotionally and physically drained, the musician's breath hitching against Mark's lips. He led them to lie down gently, wrapping Roger in his arms. Roger curled in to him, burying himself in Mark's embrace, content to think that for now, everything was perfect.

For the first time in a long time, both Roger and Mark slept through the night.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: This story is turning out ALOT longer than I expected. This was supposed to be the last chapter...actually, last chapter was supposed to be the last chapter. Hope your not getting bored blushes. Thanks for reading and reviewing! Next chapter may be the last, it all depends on how angsty I'm feeling, really. Enjoy!

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When Roger awoke, he was thoroughly surprised to find that he was warm. Not just warm, but comfortably warm, which was odd to him seeing as that he hadn't been both comfortable and warm for a very long time. He shifted slightly, pushing himself closer to the source of warmth next to him and making a content noise in the back of his throat. The source of warmth laughed, making Roger smile as well.

"Mornin'," Mark said, and Roger mumbled a jumbled, sleepy reply. "Did you just purr?"

"Fuck off," Roger murmured, burying his nose in Mark's chest. "On second thought, don't move. You're serving a good purpose here."

Mark laughed again, and Roger noticed how he couldn't help but smile when Mark laughed. The noise was addicting, and he realized that he'd do almost anything in the world to hear that sound.

"You do know its two o'clock in the afternoon?" Mark said, running a hand across Roger's arm gently. Roger opened his eyes, squinting against the sunlight that was streaming through the open door from the living room window.

"You do know that I don't give shit?" Roger said in all seriousness, rolling over onto his back. When Mark started to roll towards the edge of the bed, Roger reached an arm out lazily, attempting to grab Mark's but in the end just swatting at him playfully. "Where ya goin'?"

"Breakfast," Mark said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He looked back at Roger, and Roger almost melted as Mark flashed a vibrant smile. A smile he hadn't seen in years, that he'd missed more than he'd like to admit. "Pancakes or waffles?"

"We have pancake mix?"

"Guess that answers my question," Mark said, standing and stretching, almost catlike in his movements. "I picked some up the other day. Cereal isn't cutting it anymore."

"I don't really need breakfast," Roger said, propping himself shakily up on his elbows. "You can stay in bed if you want."

"No, its okay," Mark said, the silly grin never leaving his face. "I want to make breakfast for you. It'll be great. When's the last time you had breakfast in bed, huh?"

"I don't think I've ever had breakfast in bed."

"Well, no day like today, right?" Mark said, and without waiting for a replay, bounced out of the room. Roger smiled sadly and rested his head back on the pillow, staring at the ceiling and willing his stomach to settle down. He didn't have the heart to tell Mark that he wouldn't be able to keep anything solid down if he tried. Ever since he had attempted to sit up, Roger's stomach had been doing flip flops and threatening to send something rather foul tasting up into his throat. He swallowed hard, feeling his arms shaking, and tried to relax.

His mind settled on Mark, and he smiled once again, a genuine smile this time. He had been planning for weeks to tell Mark about his developing feelings for him, but he never imagined that Mark would return his feelings. They had been friends so long, Roger could barely remember a time when Mark wasn't in his life. It was then that Roger had realized he didn't _want_ to remember a time when Mark wasn't in his life. He wanted Mark in his life until the end.

Which, he thought bitterly, wasn't very far away. He rolled over, curling up on his side and picking at a loose string on Mark's pillow, suddenly feeling a wave of despair wash over him. How was it fair that he got Mark now, the most wonderful, perfect thing in the entire world that he'd been so desperately clutching to all these years, only to have him snatched away in……how long? Months? Weeks? Days?

"Ugh," Roger groaned as the smell of pancakes wafted in through the open door, filling his nostrils and making his stomach churn. He rolled away from the door, trying to escape the smell, but a wave of nausea washed over him.

"Roger!" Mark yelled from the kitchen. "Breakfast is almost ready! You better be awake when I get in there!"

Roger rolled off the side of the bed, stumbling to his feet and palming the wall for support. He closed his eyes, taking deep breaths. He stumbled towards the door, surprised at his own weakness. As he made his way into the hallway, Mark looked at him quizzically, standing there with a tray in hand and a giant stack of pancakes in the middle.

"Hey," Mark said, cocking his head to the side a little. "What are you doing out of bed? I was going to bring –"

But Mark was suddenly cut off as Roger pushed him out of the way, nearly knocking the tray out of his hands in his flight to the bathroom. The door slammed shut, and Mark heard the violent sounds of Roger throwing up. He set the tray down and moved to the bathroom door, knocking gently.

"Roger?" he asked, his heart pained as Roger threw up again. "Are you okay? Do you need anything?"

"No," Roger's voice was strained and weak, and Mark wondered briefly which of his questions Roger had actually answered. Mark waited for Roger to say more, and when he didn't, he silently pushed the door open and walked into the small space.

Roger looked absolutely miserable. He was leaning weakly against the small bathtub, the side of his sweaty face resting against the cool porcelain. His eyes were closed, but Mark knew that Roger was aware of his presence. Mark didn't say anything, just squatted down next to Roger and brushed a strand of damp hair behind his ear. Roger opened his eyes, looking up at Mark for a moment before focusing on the floor.

"Are you sure you don't need anything?" Mark asked, trying to meet Roger's gaze. Roger kept his eyes pointing anywhere but Mark's.

"I'm okay, really," Roger said, lifting his head off the bathtub, wincing, and setting it back down. "I'm just a little tired."

"Roger?" Mark asked gently, and when Roger didn't lift his eyes, he rested a hand on the side of his face, directing his Roger's eyes to meet his. "Look at me. What's wrong?"

Roger shook his head, wanting desperately to get out the range of Mark's gaze. "It's just that……I can't…..I don't……your pancakes are making me sick."

Mark smiled, trying hard to contain his laughter. He knew this was a serious matter to Roger, but to think that he'd get upset over pancakes?

"Well then let's get rid of them," Mark said, standing and making to leave the bathroom. Roger grabbed his wrist weakly, stopping his exit.

"Mark, wait," Roger mumbled, and Mark knelt back down next to him. "Listen, I'm sorry. I know you wanted to make me breakfast and everything. And I……I really appreciate it Mark, I do. You don't know how much I do. I just……I don't feel right anymore."

"Roger, listen to me," he said, taking Roger's hand gently. "And listen to me carefully, because what I'm about to say is extremely important."

Roger leaned in slightly, his eyes fully of curiosity.

"I don't give a flying fuck about those pancakes."

Roger laughed then, a laugh that was full of surprise and amusement, sneaking out of the back of his throat and catching him completely off guard. To Mark, it was the most wonderful thing he'd ever heard.

"I'm serious," Mark smiled, squeezing Roger's hand. "I just want to make you happy. That's all. Guess that backfired on me."

Roger smiled again, meeting Mark's eyes with the most intense gaze the filmmaker had ever witnessed. He leaned in gently to kiss him, but stopped, turning away suddenly.

"What?" Mark asked, and to his surprise, Roger smiled.

"I have puke breath."

"Sick!" Mark said, pushing himself dramatically away from Roger. Roger laughed again, sitting up straight and pushing himself to rest on his knees.

"You okay now?" Mark asked, and Roger nodded. "Good, I have a plan. You feel up to going out?"

Roger shrugged, about to decline the offer, when suddenly a thought struck him. _Months? Weeks?_

_Days?_

"Sure, I'd love to."

"All right, get dressed," Mark beamed, standing and giving Roger a kiss on the head before making his way back into the living room. "I have an excellent idea on what to do with those pancakes."

* * *

"So, you do this often?" Roger asked with a smile, ripping a chunk out of his pancake and throwing to the grass. He watched as a pigeon waddled over to his feet, pecking at the pancake and gathering some in his beak. Sinking into the heavy coat that Mark had lent him, he turned to watch the filmmaker, who currently had his camera focused on an older couple sitting on a bench a ways down from theirs.

"Not too often, only when I run out of things to film," Mark said, putting the camera down and ripping off a hunk of his own pancake. He tossed it to the ground, and a couple of new pigeons came and gathered around Mark's feet. "I thought the birds might be getting tired of stale bread."

Roger laughed, leaning back and breathing in the cold winter air. He looked around, noticing the dead grass and the sparse amount of people that currently occupied the park. "So what do you film here? I'd say you'd have better filming material in the loft."

"I don't know, this place is a lot better in the springtime," Mark shrugged, looking around for a moment. He pointed to the couple on the bench, making sure Roger's eyes followed. "You see them over there?"

"Yeah, why?"

"How old do you think they are?"

Roger leaned forward, squinting. "I don't know. 80, 85 maybe?"

Mark shook his head, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "The man is 90 years old, the woman 88. They've been together for 68 years."

Roger cocked his head slightly, keeping his eyes focused on the couple. "You've talked to them?"

Mark nodded. "They come here every day, have been for six months. They caught me filming them once and struck up a conversation. Nicest people I've ever met, especially in this area."

"Wow," Roger said, leaning back again and blowing air into his hands to keep them warm. "68 years, I can't even imagine."

"Yeah," Mark said, leaning back as well. He watched as the man looked at his wife, smiled, and took her hand. Suddenly, Mark felt an unexpected warmth around his hand, and looked to find it wrapped within Roger's. He smiled, squeezing it and bringing it to rest in his lap. He tucked Roger's hand beneath both of his, rubbing it gently. His gaze retreated back to the couple's bench. "He's dying."

Roger looked at Mark with an unreadable expression. Mark looked at Roger, smiled, and continued. "He has cancer. The doctor said he had three months to live……six months ago. They started coming to this park the day they found out, and haven't missed a day since."

Roger was silent, staring at Mark with watery eyes. There were a million things he wanted to say, but the lump in his throat prevented him from speaking at all. So he sat and started into Mark's blue eyes, listening as the filmmaker pressed on.

"It's amazing, the amount of hope they have, the amount of love," Mark's voice was almost a whisper, ghosting into the wind and across Roger's ear in the faintest but most powerful of ways. "That's why I liked to come here. When I was starting to feel like shit and to doubt and to worry and all that other stuff, I'd come here and watch them and suddenly, everything wasn't so bad anymore. I mean, if they can do it……I just wanted to show you. It gave me some hope, and I thought……I thought it might do the same for you."

They sat in silence for a moment, Roger fighting to force the lump in his throat down enough so that he could speak. His tears were painfully close to spilling over, and he was shaking from a mixture of the cold and the emotions that were whirling through him.

"Mark, I……" he trailed off, his voice rough and choked. He swallowed heavily, staring intently at Mark, losing himself in his eyes. "I……thank you. So much. I can't……"

"The brilliant songwriter is at a loss for words," Mark said, his own eyes tearing up as he laughed. Roger laughed as well, two tears escaping and trailing down his cheeks. "That's a first."

Roger scooted closer to Mark, leaning in and capturing his lips in a soft kiss. He backed away slightly, resting his forehead against Mark's and leaving his eyes closed. Their breaths mingled together, swirling and warming the air between them.

"I can't even imagine what I did to deserve you," Roger whispered, and before Mark could reply, he kissed him again. The kiss was deeper, more passionate, filled with mixed emotions and an urgency that he'd never kissed anyone else with before. He leaned into the kiss as Mark made a soft noise in his throat, their hands clenching even tighter. When Mark finally pulled away, they were both breathing heavily, the after effects of the kiss lingering on their lips.

"Leaving me speechless _and_ breathless in one day," Roger said as Mark blushed. "No girl has ever done that. You are truly amazing Mark Cohen."

Mark blushed an even deeper shade of red and laughed nervously. "Yeah, well, it's all baffling to me too. The great Roger Davis, rock-god extraordinaire, is suddenly kissing me on a park bench."

"I think we can agree that this is not quite like our other relationships," Roger said, nudging Mark with his shoulder. "I'm not a controlling, overbearing, cheating bitch, am I?"

"Oh, low blow," Mark said with a laugh, pushing Roger back. "Perhaps I'm not a backstage groupie looking for a one night stand?"

Instead of laughing, however, Roger suddenly looked away, pulling his hand out of Mark's and staring at the ground.

_Shit_, Mark though, trying to read Roger's expression. _Shouldn't have said that._

"Fuck, Roger, I'm sorry," Mark said, resting a hand on Roger's shoulder and wincing as he flinched. "Seriously, I didn't mean that, that was uncalled for."

"No, no, it's not you," Roger shook his head, still focused on the sidewalk. "It's just……something on my mind."

"Care to share?" Mark said, trying to get Roger to meet his gaze. Roger shook his head.

"You don't want to be with me, Mark," Roger said, and Mark took his hand again.

"Roger, we've been over this –"

"No, I mean……" Roger paused for a minute, finally looking up into Mark's eyes. "We can't……do things. Things that normal couples do."

"What do you mean?"

"I won't have sex with you," Roger suddenly blurted out, his face turning red and his eyes welling up with tears. "I can't Mark, even if you wanted to, which I'm not even entirely sure that you do……I just, I can't even imagine what would happen if……and I know there are ways to……but if something happened and it didn't work and you……and I……and I know that you might want to speed things up because of me, because our time together is so short and I……I just can't. I'm sorry Mark, I -"

But Roger couldn't continue, because his lips were suddenly caught in another passionate kiss, this one more comforting than urgent, more heartfelt and full of unconditional love. Mark felt Roger's tears fall against his own skin, and his heart felt like it was breaking into a million pieces.

Roger suddenly pulled away, a cough escaping his lips as he brought his hand up to his mouth. A cloud of condensation formed around his face, increasing as he coughed more. Mark rested a hand on his back, rubbing softly through his layers of clothing.

"We need to get you home, it's too cold out here," Mark said, standing and helping Roger to his feet. Roger suddenly seemed drained, both physically and emotionally, and leaned heavily against Mark. Mark wrapped an arm around his waist, trying to fill the physical and emotional voids with soft touches.

The walk back to the loft was slow, a result of Roger's weakness and both of their hesitancies to go back to their dreary apartment. Besides the occasional car driving by and Roger's coughing, the atmosphere seemed almost peaceful. Mark suddenly had the urge to film this moment. He'd never witnessed the city this quiet and tranquil before.

This didn't need to be filmed, he suddenly realized. He'd remember this forever.

They stopped at the door to the loft, Mark taking Roger's hands and turning him around so that they stood face to face.

"I love you, Roger," Mark said, leaning in and kissing the guitarist briefly. "I love you more than anything, don't ever question that."

Roger nodded, smiling, his eyelids drooping with exhaustion. "I love you, too."

"Okay," Mark said, opening the door and leading Roger into the loft. He gently peeled off Roger's coat, rubbing his arms gently as he did so. He took off his own scarf and wrapped it around Roger's neck, then took Roger by the hands again and led him into his bedroom. Sitting him down on the bed, Mark took of his boots, rubbing his feet between his hands to warm them up. Roger just looked at him with bleary, thankful eyes.

"I'm just so tired," he whispered, shivering. Mark climbed onto the bed, lying down and pulling Roger down to rest his head on his chest. He wrapped them both in a thick layer of blankets, then wrapped his arms around Roger, kissing the top of his head.

"You're going to have to go to the hospital soon."

"I know," Roger said, closing his eyes as Mark began stroking his hair. "Not now though."

"When?"

Roger took a deep breath, exhaling slowly and wrapping his arms around Mark's stomach.

"I'll let you know."


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Last chapter, finally. Better late than never, I suppose. This is a long one, so brace yourself. Thanksto everyone who reviewed, I appreciate it. I'll be getting my next story out probably within the next two weeks, so stay tuned. Thanks again!

* * *

It was three in the morning and Roger was sitting at the window, a blanket wrapped around his thin frame and a scarf – Mark's scarf – wrapped around his neck. He wasn't really watching anything, just letting the stillness of the night surround him and searching for a sense of tranquility that he couldn't seem to find. The moonlight cast odd shadows through the window and across the floor, mixing with the fluorescent, blinking lights of the night clubs down the street. He sighed, resting his head against the glass, but pulling away as the cool surface made him shiver.

_I'm always so cold,_ Roger thought bitterly, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. He wasn't even going to try and blame it on the broken heater anymore. Not when he had woken up an hour ago to go to the bathroom, looked in the mirror, and noticed the ugly purple lesions on his face. Followed by his hands shaking, his knees shaking, his palms sweating, a cough rising up from his chest….

Roger shivered again, curling into the wall as he searched for warmth. The florescent lights weren't pretty and peaceful anymore; rather, they were mocking him, laughing at him, taunting _what's wrong, Roger? Can't sleep? Too cold? Too sick? To scared?_

He closed his eyes tightly, trying to shut out the lights, the voices, but suddenly he felt incredibly nauseous. All he could see was his own face, covered in purple bruises, sweat-covered and pale and gaunt. And then it was Mark, crying, begging him not to go as he took his final breaths and…..

_Too cold?_

Roger shivered, curling up into a tighter ball.

_Too sick?_

Another wave of nausea, another hard swallow.

_Too scared?_

Roger opened his eyes, trying to get rid of those stupid images, and was surround by a splash of moonlight so bright he though he was being blinded.

_Thank God for the moon..._

Or perhaps it wasn't the moon. Perhaps this was it; this was the end, the warm, white light. Except he wasn't warm. And he didn't feel good. And he didn't want this, not at all, not in the least bit. Weren't you supposed to want this when it comes? Weren't you supposed to fight your way back to the world of the living? Wasn't there supposed to be some divine intervention? Angel? Mimi?

_Maybe it's not the moon at all..._

"Mark?"

Whoops. Roger had spoken that one out loud, though he didn't mean to. He found he couldn't really control what he was doing, thinking, saying at the moment. His heart felt like it was going to pound out of his chest, it was beating so fast. He was shaking all over, his face sweating, his eyes welling with tears at the ungodly pain in his chest. He couldn't breathe.

_Am I having a heart attack?_

Roger looked around the room, noticing a lit candle sitting on the metal table.

_Would you light my candle?_

He wanted Mark. He wanted Mark to come and block out the moonlight and blow out the candle and stop the pain. Roger laid down quietly, his breath coming in hitches as he rested his head on the hard surface. He coughed.

And within seconds, Mark was standing in the hallway, rubbing his eyes and his face tiredly. Roger made a small noise in the back of his throat, something between a pathetic _please help me_ and a more forceful _get your ass over here and help me_.

"Roger?" Mark asked, and Roger heard the sound of sock-clad feet shuffling over to him. Heard, because he couldn't see Mark right now, because he eyes were shut. "Roger, are you okay?"

"Not sure," he managed to sputter out before he started coughing again, that deep rattling cough that scared the hell out of him. Mark sat down next to him, pulling his head up off the window ledge and into his lap. He pushed strands of hair out of Roger's eyes and rubbed his back. It was almost a routine now.

"It's okay," Mark whispered. "Everything's going to be alright. Relax."

Minutes of hair stroking, back rubbing, and whispered endearments on Mark's part finally led Roger back to reality, to where he could breathe properly and he wasn't shaking nearly as bad. He was still cold, though. And still nauseous. But that was normal.

Roger let Mark help him into a sitting position, then wordlessly let himself be led to stand and walk slowly over to the couch. Mark sunk down against the arm rest, stretching out, and Roger collapsed, tucking himself between Mark and the cushions on the back of the couch. He curled into a ball and closed his eyes.

"Hey there," Mark said, and Roger couldn't help but smile as Mark gently traced the outline of his face with his fingers.

"Hey," Roger mumbled, opening his eyes. Mark's blue ones were stunning in the moonlight.

_Your eyes..._

"You okay?" Mark asked, and Roger nodded. He saw the lines in Mark's face, the bags under his eyes, the thinness of his arms, the paleness of his cheeks. Roger frowned. He didn't like Mark to be pale. He liked it when Mark blushed, when Mark had a rosy tint to his cheeks. Mark cocked his head slightly, meeting Roger with a curious look.

Roger just leaned in and kissed him, closing his eyes and letting Mark's lips warm him. He thought he should deepen the kiss, because Mark and he hadn't properly kissed in quite a while. But he was just too tired, to exhausted to initiate anything. He didn't want to disappoint Mark.

He stopped, letting Mark kiss him gently on the lips, on the cheeks, on the nose. Mark pulled away, smiling, his eyes shining in the dim candle light.

"You know," he said, resting his head on the arm rest next to Roger's, "it's no fun when you're not participating."

Roger frowned again, but Mark laughed softly, giving Roger another peck on the lips. "I'm just kidding."

"I'm tired," Roger mumbled. Mark nodded.

"I know."

Roger closed his eyes wearily, and smiled when Mark leaned over and kissed his eyelids gently. "You have amazing eyelashes."

Roger laughed, opening his eyes to find Mark blushing again. _That's more like it._

"Thanks," he said, burrowing into Mark's side. They lay in silence for a moment, but Roger couldn't seem to relax. He twisted, trying to get comfortable, trying to get his mind to settle, and buried his head into Mark's shoulder with a sigh when he couldn't.

"Something wrong?" Mark asked. "You want me to move?"

"No," Roger said, rather firmly. "Just thinking. Don't leave."

"Course not. About what?"

"I think," Roger took a deep breath. He didn't want to say these words, but he knew he had too. Mark couldn't take care of him anymore. He didn't want Mark too lose that color in his cheeks forever. He couldn't stand to see those bags, those lines. "I think I need to go to the hospital."

Mark sat up, prompting Roger to sit up with him. He rested a hand on top of Roger's.

"You're sure?"

Roger nodded, swallowing. "Uh huh."

Mark nodded, the pulled Roger back down, but not before the musician could see the tears welling up in his eyes.

"Tomorrow," Marks said, his voice strained. "We'll just rest tonight. One more night, yeah?"

"Yeah," Roger breathed, leaning in to kiss Mark again. "Yeah, one more night."

They forced the tears out of their eyes, ignored the lumps in their throats, and kissed gently until the sun rose and sleep finally came.

* * *

Roger sat on the couch, wearing his leather jacket and his faded jeans, with Mark's scarf still wrapped around his neck. He may have been going to the hospital, but he wasn't going to the hospital looking like a damned invalid. His guitar sat in his lap, encased snugly within the protective leather. That was the only thing that he insisted come with him. 

He stared at the door, refusing to look around for fear that he'd break down right then and there, and then they'd never get to the hospital in once piece. Mark said they'd have to take the train, then walk a couple of blocks, and would he be up to that? Roger said he would, even though he wasn't sure that was true.

"I'm almost ready," Mark called from the hallway. Roger blinked. Then blinked again.

"Take your time."

He finally took a deep breath and got the courage to look around slowly. He panned the entire length of the loft, sighing. It was just a loft, wasn't it? Just a shitty loft where he had spent a lot of his adult life wishing he could afford the rent, the heating, a better bed, a nicer couch, some food maybe……

But when Roger closed his eyes, he saw something else entirely.

He saw Collins, Mark, Benny, and him standing around the kitchen counter, eating cereal and drinking beer on a Saturday night.

He saw April sitting on the couch in one of his old t-shirts and a pair of his socks, falling asleep to the sounds of his guitar.

He saw Mark and Maureen kissing by the door at midnight, as he looked upon them with amusement.

He saw Angel and Collins, dancing in Collins' room as an old record played.

He saw Mimi, sitting on the fire escape, knocking and begging him to come look at the stars, they were just _gorgeous_ tonight.

He saw Joanne and Mark, trying desperately to demonstrate a proper tango while he contemplated his two left feet.

And then, he opened his eyes, and saw Mark standing there, red eyed and quiet, a small suitcase in his hands. He gave a weak smile, gesturing to the suitcase awkwardly.

"In case I need to stay, for a little while," he said, shrugging. "Always better to be prepared."

Roger nodded, and closed his eyes again. "Ready?"

"Yeah," Mark said, moving to help Roger up, but Roger put a hand up to stop him.

"I've got it."

Mark bit his lip, withdrawing his hand. "You sure?"

"I'm not walking out of here like a cripple."

Mark nodded. He watched Roger struggle to his feet and lift his guitar. When it was all said and done, and Roger had moved to the door and was waiting for him, he wanted nothing more than to be back down on that couch, sleeping, with Roger in his arms.

"Let's go," he said with a sigh. He opened the door and stepped out into the hall, watching as Roger followed him slowly out the door. His eyes welled as Roger turned around, looking into the loft for a moment before grabbing his hand and handing him the guitar.

They walked hand in hand to the subway, and Roger slept on his shoulder the whole way there.

* * *

"Hey, bitches, what's happening?" 

Roger smiled, opening his eyes as Collins entered the room, a small plant and a balloon in hand.

"You got me a plant?" Roger asked as Collins sat the small pot down on the bedside table and handed Mark the balloon.

"Don't forget the balloon, man," Collins laughed, pulling Roger into a hug. "How you feelin'?"

Roger shrugged. "The sun's out today. I'm feeling alright."

"Good, good," Collins said, sitting down in the chair next to Mark. "And how are you doing?"

"Fine," Mark mumbled, shrugging just like Roger had. He was looking past Collins, past Roger, towards the empty white wall. Collins gave Roger a questioning gaze, to which Roger returned with a shake of the head. Collins nodded, leaning his head back against the wall. "So, how's life been treating you?"

"Fine," Roger replied, as Mark simultaneously replied, "Like shit."

Collins gaze narrowed on Mark. "You alright, man?"

Mark shook his head, laughing bitterly. "What do you think?" He stood up, flinging his chair back against the wall and leaving the room in a huff. Collins whistled when Mark's back was out of sight.

"Not taking this well, is he?"

"No, not at all," Roger said, running a shaky hand through his hair, being careful not to jostle the IV. Today was a good day. Today he almost felt like he could get up and walk out of the hospital. Almost. "I guess now is as good as any time to tell you. We're kind of……together."

"No shit?" Collins asked, and smiled when Roger nodded. "Congrats, Rog. That's awesome. About time, too."

"Yeah," Roger said, smiling for a minute before his expression fell again. "Yeah, but, he's just acting weird. I know he's scared. I'm scared. But, I don't want our last days to be……like this, you know?"

"I know, man, I know," Collins said, moving to sit on the edge of Roger's bed and taking his hand. "You guys will work this out though. You always do. Remember how he was when Angel was in the hospital? All freaked out for a while? He got over that."

"Yeah," Roger said again. He felt stupid, like that was the only thing he could say. "I know. I'm just……scared."

"Of course you are," Collins said, patting Roger's hand and smiling reassuringly. "But Mark will help you through this. And you'll help him. It will be alright, I promise."

Roger nodded. "Thanks."

Collins nodded in response, and they sat in comfortable silence for a moment until Mark came shuffling back in the door, chewing on his thumb nail nervously, his head lowered.

"Long time, no see," Collins said, but Mark didn't look up. "Where've you been?"

"Walking," he said, sauntering back over to his chair and plopping back down into it. "I'm sorry."

"No apologies," Collins said, standing and clapping Mark on the back. "We're all friends here. But hey, I have to go, I've got a life support meeting to go to. I'll be back tomorrow, though, so don't miss me too much."

Roger laughed as Collins pulled him into another hug. "Miss you like hell."

"Of course you will," Collins said, pulling Mark up and into a hug. "Talk to that boy," he whispered into Mark's ear. "He needs you now."

Mark nodded and pulled away, sitting down on Roger's bed. Collins wandered out the door, smiling contently when he heard Mark begin to speak.

"Hey, Roger. How are you feeling?"

* * *

"Did you love her?" 

Roger was curled up on his side one night as Mark sat on the edge of the bed, stroking his sweaty hair as his fever climbed. Mark didn't want to burden Roger with heavy conversation right now, but he couldn't help but think that they didn't have much time left to have these conversations. Not much time at all.

"Who?" Roger whispered, his hands curled up in the sheets. Mark couldn't remember who he'd been talking about, so he started at the beginning.

"April."

Roger sighed regretfully. "Yeah, I did."

Mark nodded. "Mimi?"

Roger smiled. "Of course."

Mark nodded again. "Do you love me? As much as you loved them?"

The question wasn't demanding, wasn't pressing, wasn't jealous or accusing. Just soft and curious. Roger rolled onto his back and met Mark's eyes. "More than anything."

"Then what's the difference?" Mark asked, still curious. "I thought I loved Maureen, but I didn't feel anything like this. Do you believe that there's only one true love? Is that why I haven't felt anything like this before?"

Roger smiled patiently, bringing Mark's hand to his chest. "I don't think there's only one true love. I think that's bullshit. I do think there are different kinds of love, though. Some stronger than others, but its all love. It doesn't always have to be a love at first sight, steals your breath away kind of thing. And it's not like if you lose your true love you won't find another."

Mark still looked confused, so Roger continued, although Mark could tell he was getting worn out by the short conversation. "April was my first love. Mimi was my savior. You……you're my soul mate."

Roger said it with such affection and love that Mark couldn't help but let the tears well up in his eyes. He leaned down and kissed him softly. "So I don't take your breath away, huh?"

Roger laughed. It was half the laugh of a year ago, but still warmed Mark's heart. "Of course you do."

* * *

Mark didn't dare leave the hospital now. He barely left Roger's room, only to go to the bathroom and get Roger water when he needed it. Roger was barely awake anymore, and when he was, he was too tired to do anything but lay there while Mark stroked his hand. Sometimes, Mark would crawl into bed with Roger until one of the nurses would come in and yell at him. Sometimes, he wouldn't even care if they yelled. He'd stay there anyway. 

The end was coming; Mark could feel it screaming at him and eating at him from the inside out. Maureen and Joanne and Collins would all come to visit, and their eyes would all say the same thing: _It's almost over._

Mark wiped tears away, the dim light over Roger's bed flickering on and off as the red numbers of the digital clock blinked 2:32. The nurses weren't bothering him anymore. They were letting him stay wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted. They knew there wasn't much time, too.

"You need sleep."

The soft voice startled him, and he jumped slightly. Roger chuckled weakly, then coughed and rolled over. His green eyes were sleepy and dim, but still aware. That was a good sign to Mark. Every time Roger had woken up before, he'd always been extremely disoriented.

"Hey," Mark said softly, smiling at Roger. "What are you doing awake? Do you need some ice? Some water?"

"No, I'm fine," he said, smirking. "A kiss would be nice."

Mark laughed and leaned over, pressing his lips to Roger's chapped, dry ones. He didn't mind.

They sat quietly for a little while, until Mark brought Roger's hand up to his lips.

"I did something for you," Mark said into Roger's palm. Roger smiled.

"Oh no," he said jokingly, shaking his head slightly as Mark smiled. "What ?"

"Just a second," Mark said, standing up and going to the other side of the bed where Roger's guitar case was lying. He opened up the case, taking out the guitar and bringing it back over to the other side of Roger's bed. Roger raised an eyebrow curiously.

"What do you plan on doing with that?" Roger said, still smiling. "Lord knows you can't play it."

"That's what you think," Mark said, and slowly started plucking notes. At first, Roger didn't comprehend what song Mark was playing, and started to question if Mark was playing a song at all, or whether he was just playing random notes. However, after a couple of seconds, he heard something so familiar and so obvious that it made his eyes sting and his throat close when he realized it.

Of course it was Musetta's Waltz. Of course it was the song that he'd spent way too much time playing, when he didn't have inspiration or when he just wanted to feel the music and play. Of course it was the song that had supposedly driven Mark crazy, but that he really had a soft spot for. Of course.

Roger closed his eyes and listened as Mark played the entire song. It took a while, because Mark would occasionally hit a wrong note and would have to find a part in the song where he could start from. But it was beautiful to Roger, sending shivers down his spine. When Mark finished, he felt a sad sense of emptiness.

"Well, that was horrible," Mark said, laughing as he wiped a tear off of his cheek. Roger shook his head.

"That was beautiful. Thank you."

Mark nodded, then put the guitar aside and lay next to Roger, careful not to jostle him or his IV tubes. He wrapped and arm around Roger's stomach, resting his head on Roger's shoulder. Roger brought a hand up and ran it through Mark's hair.

"You'll be alright," he said, and Mark could tell he was falling asleep. "You'll be fine, when I'm gone."

"Will I?" Mark asked, suddenly full of fear, his hands shaking. "I don't know if I can."

"You will," Roger insisted. "You're Mark. You'll always be okay."

"What's a Mark without a Roger, though?" Mark asked, although it sounded stupid. He couldn't stop the tears.

"You'll be fine," Roger repeated, drifting quickly. "I love you. That's enough, right?"

"Yeah," Mark mumbled, leaning over to kiss Roger. Surprisingly, Roger returned the kiss. It was quick, but it was enough. "Yeah, that's enough."

* * *

Mark sat on the old park bench, his camera up to his face as he panned around in search of a good shot. A dog, a kid, a nice looking flower, anything that gave him inspiration. 

Which, he realized with a sigh, was nothing nowadays. Nothing except that old guitar by his – actually, Collins' – bed and the picture on the nightstand. The picture of him and Roger on the fire escape, the one that Collins had taken years ago and had just given to him a month ago, when he moved into the guest room. He wanted to be able to tell Collins that he'd move out and get a place of his own soon, but he couldn't do that. He didn't want to be alone.

Mark looked across the lake, noticing a figure sitting on a park bench. He stood up, deciding that it couldn't hurt to take a small walk around the lake, and wandered over to the other side of the park. He couldn't help but smile, then, when he found the old woman sitting there, the same old woman who had been coming there for months, bundled up in a coat even though it was spring and beginning to warm up.

"Hi," Mark said, turning his camera off and approaching her. "Do you remember me?"

"Of course I do," the woman replied with a smile, reaching out to take Mark's hand in hers. "You're that filmmaker boy."

"Yes ma'am," Mark said. A warm breeze surrounded them. "How have you been?"

"Just fine, dear," she replied, looking around contently. "The park is always so beautiful this time of year."

"Yes, ma'am, it is," Mark replied. Suddenly, curiosity got the best of him. "Where is your husband?"

She didn't stop smiling. "Oh, he passed a while ago, dear. It was his time to go. Lord knows I miss him, though. He put up a good fight."

Mark swallowed, nodding. "I'm glad."

"Where is your friend? The other boy you used to bring here?"

"He…." Mark's mouth suddenly dried up, "….passed as well."

"Oh no," the woman looked honestly concerned and saddened. "I'm so sorry, honey. I didn't know he was sick."

"Yeah," Mark said tentatively. He didn't like telling people this, because most people had an unkind reaction or a rude remark. Still, he said it anyway. "He had AIDS."

"That's awful," the woman replied, but not unkindly. She patted Mark's hand. "I'm so sorry. I pray for you all the time."

Mark nodded. He wished he could have said the same thing. He finally sat down on the bench next to the old woman, letting her hold his hand. They said nothing for a few moments, letting the spring breeze ruffle their hair and their clothes.

"It's good to have love, though, isn't it?" the old woman said after a while. She looked at Mark, smiling. "It's nice to know there's someone watching out for you. Makes it all worth while."

"Yeah," Mark breathed. He thought about the pain of the last months, the heartbreak, the tears and the nightmares and the lonely nights spent alone in bed. He thought about the guitar next to his bed, and the picture of Roger and him looking up at the moon on a warm spring night. It was all worth while.

"Yeah, it definitely does."


End file.
